James Herbert - Sepulchre

'And the Lord God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle,

and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shall thou eat all the days of thy

life.' Genesis 3:14

THE SUMERIANS

Three thousand years before the birth of Christ, the first real moves towards civilisation emerged from

southern Mesopotamia, around the lower reaches of the Euphrates andTigris rivers. Because the land

was between two rivers—Sumer—the people there were called Sumerians.

Their ethnic origins have never been explained.

This race of people made three important contributions towards our advancement—four if you count the

establishment of firmly governed communities.

The first two were these: The measurement of time in hours, days and months; and astrology, the study

of the stars' influences, which eventually led to the science of astronomy.

But the third was most important of all, for the Sumerian high priests discovered a way of making man

immortal. Not by eternally binding his spirit to its earthly shell, but by preserving his knowledge. These

high priests devised the written word, and nothing invented since has had a greater effect on mankind's

progression.

Yet little is known of these people themselves.

By 2400 BC they had been swallowed up by surrounding, less enlightened tribes, who absorbed the

Sumerian culture and spread it to other lands, other nations.

So although their achievements survived, the Sumerians' early history did not. For the kings, the princes,

and the high priests destroyed or hid all such records.

Possibly they had good reason.

1 MORNING DUES

The man was smiling. Halloran was smiling and he shouldn't have been.

He should have been scared—bowel-loosening scared. But he didn't appear to be. He seemed . . . he

seemed almost amused. Too calm for a sane man. As if the two Armalites and the Webley .38 aimed at

his chest were of no concern at all.

Well, that wisp of a smile on his unshaven face would spirit itself away soon enough. This 'eejit's'

reckoning was coming, sure, and it was a terrible unholy one.

McGuillig waved his revolver towards the van parked in the shadows of trees just off the roadside.

'Your man's in there.' The harshness of his tone made it clear he held scant patience with Halloran's

manner.

'And your money's here,' Halloran replied, nudging the bulky leather case on the ground with his foot.

McGuillig watched him coolly. When he'd spoken on the phone to the operative, he'd detected a trace

of Irish in Halloran's voice, the merest, occasional lilt. But no, he was pure Brit now, no doubt at all.

'Then we'll get to it,' McGuillig said.

As he spoke, rays from the early morning sun broke through, shifting some of the greyness from the

hillsides. The trees nearby dripped dampness, and the long grass stooped with fresh-fallen rain. But the

air was already sharp and clear, unlike, as McGuiliig would have it, the unclean air of the North. Free air.

Uncontaminated by Brits and Prods. A mile away, across the border, the land was cancered. The

Irishman regarded the weapon he held as the surgeon's scalpel.

Just as McGuillig, brigade commander of D Company, Second Battalion of the Provisional IRA,

watched him, so Halloran returned his gaze, neither man moving.

Then Halloran said: 'Let's see our client first.' A pause before McGuillig nodded to one of his

companions, a youth who had killed twice in the name of Free Ireland and who was not yet nineteen. He

balanced the butt of the Armalite against his hip, barrel threatening the very sky, and strolled to the van.

He had to press hard on the handle before the backdoor would open.

'Give him a hand,' McGuillig said to the otherprovo on his left. 'Don't worry about these two: they'll not

be moving.' He thumbed back the Webley's hammer, its click a warning in the still air.

All the same, this second companion, older and more easily frightened than his leader, kept his rifle

pointed at the two Englishmen as he walked over to the van.

'We had to dose up your man,' McGuillig told Halloran. 'To keep him quietened, y'understand. He'll be

right as rain by tomorrow.' Halloran said nothing.

The backdoor was open fully now and a slumped figure could be seen inside. The olderprovo reluctantly

hung his rifle over one shoulder and reached inside the van along with the youth. They drew the figure

towards themselves, lifting it out.

'Bring him over, lads, lay him on the ground behind me,' their commander ordered. To Halloran: 'I'm

thinking I'd like to see that money.' Halloran nodded. 'I'd like my client examined.' McGuillig's tone was

accommodating. 'That's reasonable. Come ahead.' With a casual flick of his hand, Halloran beckoned the

heavyset man who was leaning against their rented car twenty yards away. The man unfolded his arms

and approached. Not once did Halloran take his eyes off the IRA leader.

The heavy-set man strode past Halloran, then McGuillig. He knelt beside the prone figure, the Irish

youth crouching with him.

He gave no indication, made no gesture.

'The money,' McGuillig reminded.

Halloran slowly sank down, both hands reaching for the leather case in front of him. He sprung the two

clasps.

His man looked back at him. No indication, no signal.

Halloran smiled and McGuillig suddenly realised that it was he, himself, who was in mortal danger. When

Halloran quietly said—when he breathed—'Jesus, Mary' he heard that lilt once more.

Halloran's hands were inside the case.

When they re-appeared an instant later, they were holding a snub-nosed sub-machine gun.

McGuillig hadn't even begun to squeeze the .38's trigger before the first bullet from the Heckler and

Koch had imploded most of his nose and lodged in the back of his skull. And the otherprovo hadn't even

started to rise before blood was blocking his throat and gushing through the hole torn by the second

bullet. And the Irish youth was still crouching with no further thoughts as the third bullet sped through his

head to burst from his right temple.

Halloran switched the sub-machine gun to automatic as he rose, sure there were no others lurking among

the trees, but ever careful, chancing nothing.

He allowed five seconds to pass before relaxing. His companion, who had thrown himself to the ground

the moment he saw Halloran smile, waited just a little longer. McGuillig thought.

2 ACHILLES' SHIELD

The sign for Achilles' Shield was as discreet as its business: a brass plaque against rough brick mounted

inside a doorway, the shiny plate no more than eight by four inches, a small right-angled triangle at one

end as the company logo. That logo represented the shield that the Greek hero Achilles, if he'd been

wiser, would have worn over his heel, his body's only vulnerable part, when riding into battle. The name,

with its simple symbol, was the only fanciful thing about the organisation.

Situated east of St Katharine's Dock, with its opulent yacht basin and hotel, the offices of Achilles'

Shield were in one of the many abandoned wharfside warehouses that had been gutted and refurbished in

a development which had brought trendy shops, offices and 'old style' pubs to lie incongruously beneath

the gothic shadow of Tower Bridge. The company plaque was difficult to locate. To spot it, you had to

know where it was. To know, you had to be invited.

The two men sitting in the third floor office—a large, capacious room, because space wasn't at a

premium in these converted warehouses—had been invited. One of them had been invited many times

over the past six years.

He was Alexander Buchanan, a suitably sturdy name for an underwriter whose firm, Acorn Buchanan

Limited, had a 'box' on the floor of Lloyd's of London and company offices nearFenchurch Street .

Acorn Buchanan's speciality was K & R insurance. Kidnap and Ransom.

The person with him was his client, Henry Quinn-Reece, chief executive and deputy chairman of the

Magma Corporation PLC. He looked ill at ease, even though the leather sofa on which he sat was

designed for maximum comfort. Perhaps he did not enjoy the scrutiny he was under.

The scrutineers were three, and they were directors of Achilles' Shield. None of these men did or said

anything to relax their prospective client. In fact, that was the last thing they wanted: they liked their

interviewees to be on edge, and sharper because of it.

The one behind the large leather-topped desk, who was in charge of the meeting, was Gerald Snaith,

Shield's managing director, officially titled Controller. He was forty-nine years old, a former major in the

SAS, and had trained soldiers, British and foreign, all over the world. His main service action had been

inOman , his exploits largely unknown to the public because, after all, that particular conflict-or more

accurately, the British Army's participation in it—had never been recognised officially. A short man, and

stocky, his hair a slow-greying ginger, Snaith looked every inch a fighting man which, in truth, he still was.

In a straight-backed chair to the side of the Controller's desk sat Charles Mather MBE, a keen-eyed

man of sixty-two years (those keen eyes often held a glint of inner amusement as though Mather found it

impossible to treat life too seriously all the time, despite the grim nature of the business he was in).

Introduced to clients as Shield's Planner, or sometimes Proposer, staff within the organisation preferred

to call him 'The Hatcher'. He was tall, thin, and ramrod, but forced to use a cane for walking because of

a severe leg wound received inAden during the latter stages of that 'low intensity' campaign. A jeep in

which he was travelling had been blown off the road by a land mine. Only his fortitude and an already

exemplary military career had allowed him to return to his beloved army, sporting concealed sears and a

rather heroic limp; unfortunately a sniper's bullet had torn tendons in that same leg many years later when

he had been GOC and Director of Operations in Ulster, hence the stick and early retirement from the

British Army.

The only non-English name among a very English assemblage was that of Dieter Stuhr, a German-born

and at one time member of the Bundeskriminalamt, an organisation within the German police force

responsible to the Federal Government for the monitoring of terrorists and anarchist groups. Stuhr sat

alongside Snaith at the desk. Younger than his two colleagues and four years divorced, his body was not

in the same lean condition: a developing paunch was beginning to put lower shirt buttons under strain, and

his hairline had receded well beyond the point of no return. He was an earnest, over-anxious man, but

supreme at organising movement, finances, time-tables and weaponry for any given operation, no matter

what the difficulties, be they dealing with the authorities in other countries (particularly certain police

chiefs and high-ranking officials who were not above collusion with kidnappers-and terrorists) or

arranging 'minimum risk' life-styles for fee-paying 'targets'. Within the company he was known very

properly as the Organiser.

He bore an impressive scar on his face which might well have been a sword-scythed wound, perhaps

the symbol of machoism so proudly worn by duellingHeidelberg students before and during Herr Hitler's

rapid rise to infamy; but Stuhr was not of that era and the mutilation was nothing so foolishly valiant. It

was no more than a deep, curving cut received while falling off his bicycle after free-wheeling down a

too-steep hill outside his home town ofSchleiz . A truck driver ahead of him had been naturally cautious

about crossing the junction at the bottom of the hill and Stuhr, an eleven-year old schoolboy at the time,

had neglected to pull on his brakes until it was too late. The bicycle had gone beneath the truck, while the

boy had taken a different route around the tailboard's corner catching his face as he scraped by.

The scar stretched down from his left temple, and curved into his mouth, a hockey-stick motif that made

his smile rise up the side of his head. He tried not to smile too much.

Gerald Snaith was speaking: 'You understand that we'd need a complete dossier on your man's

background and current lifestyle?' Quinn-Reece nodded. 'We'll supply what we can.'

'And we'd have to know exactly how valuable he is to your corporation.'

'He's indispensable,' the deputy chairman replied instantly.

'Now that is unusual.' Charles Mother scratched the inside of one ankle with his walking stick.

'Invaluable, I can appreciate. But indispensable? I didn't realise such an animal existed in today's world of

commerce.' Alexander Buchanan, sitting by his client on the leather sofa, said, 'The size of the insurance

cover will indicate to you just how indispensable our “target” is.'

'Would you care to reveal precisely what the figure is at this stage of the proceedings?' The question was

put mildly enough, but the underwriter had no doubts that a proper answer was required. He looked

directly at Quinn-Reece, who bowed assent.

'Our man is insured for £50 million.' said Buchanan.

Dieter Stuhr dropped his pen on the floor. Although equally surprised. Snaith and Mother did not so

much as glance at each other.

After a short pause, Buchanan added unnecessarily, 'A sizeable amount. I'm sure you'll agree.'

'I dread to think of the premium involved,' Mather remarked.

'Naturally it's proportionate to the sum insured,' said the underwriter. 'And I'm afraid the discount on the

premium to Magma, even if you accept the assignment, will be accordingly low. Ten per cent instead of

the normal twenty.'

'I imagine, then,' said Mother to Quinn-Reece, 'that we are discussing the safety of your chairman.'

'As a matter of fact, no,' came the reply. 'The person to be insured doesn't actually have a title within the

company.'

'We can reasonably assume that he doesn't serve the tea, though,' Mother said dryly. 'I'm sure Mr

Buchanan has already informed you that a “target's” name never appears on any document or insurance

slip concerning such a policy, even though documents will be lodged in various vaults—we demand total

secrecy for security reasons, you see—but can you at least tell us your man's role within the

Corporation? We'll come to his name later, if and when there is an agreement between us.' Quinn-Reece

shifted in his seat, as if even more uncomfortable. 'I'm afraid I can't tell you that either, not at this stage.

Once a contract is agreed, then Magma will give you all the necessary information—on a “need to know”

basis, of course.'

'We're well used to such discretion,' Snaith assured. 'In fact, we encourage it. But so long as you

understand that nothing absolutely nothing—must be withheld from us should we decide to take on the

job.'

'I understand perfectly,' the deputy chairman replied, nodding his head gravely.

I wonder if he really does, thought Snaith. That every part of the 'target's' life would be delved into—his

wife, family, friends, his habits, recreations. Whether or not he has a mistress. Especially that. A mistress

(or mistresses) was always a weak link in any operation of this sort because usually the target himself

tried to cover up that particular side of his activities, would even endeavour to elude his own protectors

for the occasional tryst with his woman. Shield would also have to know how the target was regarded as

a man—stubborn, soft, fit, unfit, loving, harsh, conformist or otherwise, and so on (intelligence was

assumed if he was worth insuring in this way). If married and had children, what kind of husband was he,

what kind of father? Snaith and his operatives would need to know his precise movements, every hour,

every minute of the day and night. Were these movements regularly reported both inside and outside the

Corporation? Would the media ever be informed in advance'? He was already aware of the employee's

value to Magma—an incredible £50 million—but what was the nature and value of his function? All these

questions, and many more, would have to be answered before Shield could begin to devise a

specially-tailored security cover. Even then, no such protective system could ever be foolproof, not

where terrorists were concerned. But one question had to be answered at the outset.

Snaith leaned forward on his desk, his fingers interlocking, thumbs turning circles around each other.

'Why now?' he asked. 'Why do you feel this member of your corporation needs protection at this point in

time?'

'Because,' Quinn-Reece replied blandly, 'he told us so.' This time Snaith and Mather did not refrain from

looking at each other.

'Your man has received a warning, a threat?' asked Mather.

'Not exactly.' Dieter Stuhr, who had been jotting down odd notes throughout the proceedings, rested his

pen. 'Is Magma involved in some venture that could put your employee at risk?'

'Not at this moment.'

'It has been in the past?' Stuhr persisted.

Buchanan quickly spoke up. 'Gentlemen, I'm sure you're all well aware of the Magma Corporation's

undoubted prominence in the commercial world. It has widespread international interests in the mining,

industrial and energy sectors, with assets of over £6,000 million and an annual turnover of something like

£45,000 million. It would take you a whole day to study the list of subsidiary companies the Corporation

owns.'

'Thank you for the information, Alexander, but what the hell has that to do with what we're talking

about?' Snaith enquired bluntly.

'Only that you may rest assured that Magma is not involved in any enterprises that might be considered,

er . . .'

'Shady?' Mather obligingly finished for him.

Stuhr smiled way past his left eyebrow.

'Questionable,' Buchanan allowed.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply . . .' Stuhr, still smiling, began to say.

'That's quite all right, I understand,' said Quinn-Reece. 'You need to be fully in the picture, as it were.

Let me put it this way: the man we are discussing has certain . . . abilities . . .' he stressed the word '. . .

that companies whose commercial activities are similar to our own might well envy. In that respect, he

could always be at risk should one of those rival companies, shall we say, become over-envious.'

'They could always pay more than you for his services,' suggested Mather, becoming somewhat

intrigued by their prospective client.

'If,' Quinn-Reece replied almost slyly, 'they knew of his existence.' He smiled at the three men facing

him, pleased with their rapt attention. 'I'm sorry to sound so mysterious but, you see, our man has unique

skills that would be virtually impossible to match. Not that our competitors would ever have knowledge

of them—those skills are kept secret even within our own organisation.' Mather rested his hands over the

handle of his cane. He glanced towards the room's huge window, a gull catching his eye as it swooped

by, wings dazzling white in the cold sunshine. 'This sounds, uh, quite interesting,' he said, returning his

gaze to the deputy chairman. 'Yes . . .' the word drawn out '. . . interesting indeed. Would you care to

elaborate?' Quinn-Reece held up his palms. 'Again, I'm afraid not. At least, not until you agree to the

assignment. I know that puts you in an awkward position, but we have our own security requirements.

There is also one other matter that might not meet with your satisfaction.' Stuhr's pen was poised once

more.

'The man we're discussing,' Quinn-Reece went on, 'already maintains a strong protection unit around

him.'

'Ah,' said Mather.

'Bodyguards?' enquired Stuhr.

Quinn-Reece nodded.

'Are they well-trained?' asked Snaith.

'Reasonably so, I believe,' replied Quinn-Reece.

'Then why does Magma need our services?' The deputy chairman looked at Buchanan.

'That's a priority condition of Acorn Buchanan if we're to take on the risk,' said the underwriter. “These

personal bodyguards may well be proficient, but my company would feel more comfortable if Achilles'

Shield were running the show.'

'It's no problem,' commented Stuhr. 'I can work out an effective operation into which they can be

absorbed. First though we would have to ascertain just how goad these men are, and how trustworthy;

and they would have to recognise implicitly our authority over them.'

'Naturally,' agreed Quinn- Reece. 'Your company would have complete control.'

'That's fine then,' said Snaith. At least, he thought it was fine.

'Buchanan cleared his throat. 'There is yet another factor, Gerald,' he said.

The tone of his voice hinted that Snaith and his colleagues were not going to like this one.

'I've already explained to Mr Quinn-Reece and his chairman that it's Achilles' Shield's practice to have at

least three operatives in direct contact with the target, so ensuring a too friendly relationship never

develops between protector and protected.'

'It's our way of making certain,' Snaith told Quinn-Reece, 'that if our precautions fail and our client is

abducted then negotiations between the kidnappers and our man won't be hindered by personal

involvement.'

'I can appreciate that,' the deputy chairman responded.

'Unfortunately,' Buchanan went on, 'the Magma Corporation will allow only one of your men to cover

the target on a close basis.'

'Good Lord,' said Mather, while Stuhr muttered under his breath, 'Verflucht!'

'That's impossible,' Snaith quickly asserted.

'Please understand that the condition only applies to internal security,' said Quinn-Reece anxiously.

'Whatever outside arrangements you care to make are entirely up to you. You see, we're dealing with a

matter of utmost secrecy here—the nature of our man's role within the Corporation—and the less people

who know of it the better as far as Magma is concerned.'

'I can assure you of absolute confidentiality,' Snaith insisted.

'I've no doubts on that score. But this person is one of the prime reasons for the Corporation's success

throughout the world. Our secret weapon if you like. We have no wish for that secret nor even the fact

that we have a secret—to be exposed beyond key executives within the organisation itself. If you are to

take on this job, your man must be governed by that same secrecy.'

'You mean even we in this room are to be excluded from this knowledge?' a surprised Stuhr asked.

'That is the case.'

'It's highly irregular,' huffed the German.

Quinn-Reece was no longer ill at ease. He actually enjoyed laying down this last condition, because it

reminded him of his position and how strong was his Corporation: imposing Magma terms was part of

normal business negotiations and home-ground to him. He began to feel less intimidated by these three

Shield people, more bullish. Besides, he was a shrewd judge of atmosphere and knew they were already

hooked. Perhaps the talk of secrecy' was close to their own clandestine hearts. And obviously, the

financial inducement was irresistible, for Achilles' Shield fees would be in direct ratio to the premium paid.

'Irregular.' he admitted, 'but as far as the Chairman and myself are concerned, fundamental.' A silence

followed in which the Controller, Planner, and Organiser considered the implications of such a condition.

James Herbert - Sepulchre

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